McNally's Folly (34 page)

“You read this stuff?” I chided Sofia.

“It’s my job, Archy,” she said, retrieving the novel. “I have to keep my finger on the pulse of the nation.” With that, she lit another cigarette.

And if the nation were attempting to keep pace with the Amazon and the jock, we would be on the verge of a cardiac-arrest epidemic any moment.

“The lady is in town,” Sofia was saying.

Had Sofia, too, been invited to Bar Anticipation this afternoon? “How do you know that?”

“There was a note in Lolly Spindrift’s column yesterday, and I quote: “That anticipated July heat wave hit town yesterday in the form of novelist
extraordinaire
Sabrina Wright. Here on a fact-finding mission for your next novel, Sabrina, or looking for the man that got away dot, dot, dot?’ unquote.”

Lolly Spindrift is the gossip columnist for our local gazette, who favors the dot, dot, dot school of journalism in memory of the school’s founding father, Walter Winchell. “What do you suppose that means?” I asked Sofia.

“Beats me, Archy. Ask Lolly.”

“I’ll do better than that, Sofia. I’ll ask Sabrina Wright.”

I didn’t wait for the smoke to clear, so I have no idea of Sofia’s reaction to my parting shot.

“Well,” I questioned the novelist
extraordinaire,
“who gave you my name?”

“A former client who wishes to remain anonymous.”

Given the ana of my clientele, that did not narrow the field, but before I could insist on a more concrete reference, the bartender was before us. He was a young man with a lot of attitude, the required demeanor for the adolescents who linger in Palm Beach after the close of the season wondering why they had failed to attract a rich patron of either sex in January. Hope sprung eternal in the less frenetic dog days of mid-July.

“A drink, Mr. McNally?” my hostess offered.

My drink of choice in the summer months is a frozen daiquiri, but in this venue I thought it best to stick to the basics. “What brand vodka do you pour?” I inquired of the failed Lothario.

“The brand that comes in a bottle and looks like water.”

My companion found this amusing. I didn’t, but to take issue would only serve to validate the wisecrack. Besides, he was twenty years younger than yrs. truly and all muscled P&V. “I’ll have one with tonic and lemon, not lime.”

“And I’ll have another Pink Lady,” Sabrina ordered, confirming my suspicions.

Looking around I noted that the place was doing a lively business for so early in the day and assayed the crowd as a mixture of the haves, the have-nots, and wannabes heavy on the wannabes. The one cocktail waitress did not show promise of ever owning the joint or waltzing down the aisle with a guy boasting any title other than Mister.

In a move that I assumed was meant to rile me, Sabrina whispered, “What do you think of the bartender, Mr. McNally?”

“Not much. Why?”

“He has a common face and a noble derriere. A lethal combination. I shall call him Chauncey and immortalize him in my next novel and remember, you heard it here first.”

How could I forget it?

Unaware that he had been short-listed for immortality, Chauncey served our drinks and treated us to a bowl of salted peanuts.

“Cheers, Mr. McNally,” Sabrina Wright toasted.

I gestured with my drink in the time-honored manner and continued to try to learn why I had been summoned into her presence. “If you won’t tell me who recommended me, Ms. Wright, will you tell me why you invited me here?”

Her dark eyes darted somewhat theatrically from left to right before she confided, “I want you to find my husband.”

“I don’t take domestic cases, Ms. Wright.”

She reared her head and snapped, “This is not a domestic case.”

“Your husband took a powder and you want me to find him. Where I come from, that constitutes a domestic case.”

Her Joan Crawford lips smiled, or grimaced, I’m not sure which, and finally opened so she could intone, “He did not take a powder, Mr. McNally. My daughter ran off. I sent my husband to find her and now I seem to have lost him, too.”

Lost both her daughter and husband? How careless, I thought. However it did enlighten me on the meaning of Lolly’s dot, dot, dot item. But if Sabrina Wright was speaking to me in confidence, as I assumed she was, how did Lolly know she had misplaced her husband? Of course I would ask him, and he would stoically refuse to name his source, claiming reporter/informer confidentiality, but blab it fast enough over dinner at Cafe L’Europe, ordering Krug with his beluga, at my expense. Such are the priorities of gossip columnists.

I sipped my vodka and tonic while trying to decide my next move. As Sofia had told me, Sabrina Wright was no spring chicken, despite her trim figure and porcelain complexion. Therefore it would be very unlikely that she had a daughter young enough to be considered a runaway. I munched a peanut as she observed Chauncey, though I’m not certain if it was his head or his tail that kept her captive. To rescue her from prurient thoughts, I asked, “How old is your daughter, Ms. Wright?”

She turned her attention to me, more startled than ever, and answered, “Nearing thirty.”

My mind shouted, “How near?” but what came out of my mouth was, “A woman nearing thirty cannot be said to have run off in the manner of a minor child...”

“Gillian did,” she cut me off.

“She has the right to come and go as she pleases,” I continued. “If you suspect foul play, I suggest you contact the police. And husbands have been known to run out for a pack of cigarettes, never to return—however, I believe he has more of a legal obligation to you than does your daughter.” Here it occurred to me that the husband could be in cahoots with Gillian, both harboring a desire to flee the dubious family blessing of fame and fortune. Sabrina Wright wouldn’t be the first successful woman to rule her roost with an iron hand and a short leash.

But was Sabrina’s husband Gillian’s father? Here comes the plot twist worthy of a Sabrina Wright novel. A stepfather with a roving eye and his stepdaughter living in the shadow of a successful and, perhaps, overbearing mother. Daughter flees and stepdaddy goes in hot pursuit, literally as well as figuratively. Either the escapade was planned or the daughter, having taken the first step, enjoined stepfather to hop aboard the liberation train when he caught up with her. Had he, or Gillian, made a dent in Sabrina’s bank account recently? Doubtful, as I imagine Sabrina Wright kept the exchequer under lock and key, penuriously doling out the walking-around cash.

Gently, I probed, “Is your husband Gillian’s father?”

Again the smile, or grimace, and, “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. McNally, and how delightfully naughty of you. Do you write?”

“I keep a journal and am told my expense account shows promise of a creative genius reminiscent of Fitzgerald in his youth.”

She flashed me a genuine smile this time and almost, but not quite, let down her guard. “Very cleverly put. We’re going to get along just fine, Mr. McNally.”

“I told you, I don’t take domestic cases.”

“And I told you, this is not a domestic case.”

I had finished my drink but refrained from signaling Chauncey. I thought a quick retreat-rather than involvement in a family squabble the better part of valor. But, like a good mystery you hate to abandon without knowing who done it, I wanted an answer to my question.

“Is Gillian your husband’s daughter?” I repeated.

This time I got the phony smile, which was wearing thin. “He is not, Mr. McNally, but unlike a Sabrina Wright novel, Gillian and Robert, my husband, did not flee in tandem, so to speak. She ran off with a young man of her own of whom I do not approve.”

And there was the case, a domestic one to be sure, in the proverbial nutshell. “She eloped,” I stated.

“She did not,” the lady insisted.

“Then why did she leave home?”

“Why?” Sabrina Wright echoed. “Because I told her I was her mother. That’s why.”

T
HE EXPLANATION, DIRECT AND
to the point as was the lady’s style, prompted not only another question but another drink with which to wash it down. As I awaited both, I became uncomfortably aware that Sabrina and I were being observed by the patrons of Bar Anticipation, like a couple of germs on the stage of a mad scientist’s microscope. Someone had obviously recognized Sabrina Wright and the gallery was abuzz with sibilant whispers. The fact that these early-afternoon imbibers were bending elbows with a bona fide celebrity had them pickled tink.

Chauncey, who had been paying more attention to his manicure than to Sabrina and me, was suddenly all over us like a cheap suit. When he replenished my drink, he also whisked away our dish of peanuts and replaced it with one of macadamias and shelled pistachios. Such are the rewards of celebrityhood.

Picking up the scent but lacking a tail full of colorful feathers to unfurl for her audience, Sabrina reached into her purse and pulled out an onyx cigarette holder into which she fitted a black-tipped, king-size cigarette. The result was a pipe slightly shorter than the span of the Golden Gate Bridge. The ever-hovering Chauncey struck a match for Sabrina, and as the pair made eye contact over the flickering flame, I fought the temptation of lighting an English Oval and lost.

As Sabrina basked in the glow of recognition, I recalled that my only previous encounter with the literary set was with the poet Roderick Gillsworth whose book,
The Joy of Flatulence
, was ignored by the reading public and therefore lauded by the critics. Our relationship was cut short when Mrs. Gillsworth was murdered and I fingered Roderick for the crime.

Enthusiastically indulging our vices, Sabrina told me her story, which, was old and trite, but, as she stated, “It’s new when it happens to you.” What happened was a brief encounter with a college boy when Sabrina was eighteen, resulting in the birth of Gillian some nine months later. Once again borrowing from Hollywood royalty, Sabrina put her baby girl in an orphanage and then legally adopted the infant.

“And the father?” I questioned.

“The father was the scion of American nobility, their coat of arms consisting of crossed oil wells over a sea of gilt-edged securities. To form an alliance with the likes of me would have been his ruin. Besides which, he was engaged to a young lady who was Main Line Philadelphia or Back Bay Boston, I forget which, but I do know it was rumored that her family kept in their safe-deposit box a splinter from the deck of the
Mayflower
.

“He paid me handsomely to keep a low profile. Very handsomely, Mr. McNally. I was able to brush up my Shakespeare, as the song goes, live comfortably, and travel extensively. London, Paris, Antibes, Monte Carlo in and out of season, Zurich, and Rome were my playgrounds. I rubbed shoulders, among other things, with the well-to-do, and became
au fait
with the ways of the world, which is to say the ways of the rich, the super rich, and the mega rich.
Darling Desire
was the child of my wanderlust. The rest, Mr. McNally, is history.”

I tossed her a curve with, “And what of the child of your womb, Ms. Wright?”

“Gillian?” Sabrina said as if amazed that I would ask. “Gillian had the best of everything. I enrolled her in a fancy Swiss school from day one.”

“You sent your daughter to the first grade in Switzerland?” I exclaimed.

“What’s wrong with that? Little Swiss children go to the first grade in Switzerland.”

“They live there, Ms. Wright.”

“My daughter lived there, Mr. McNally. You don’t think she got on a little yellow jet every morning toting a lunch pail.”

The woman was insufferable, but I have to add, infectious. Sabrina Wright was a package. By that I mean there were no loose ends—no ifs, buts, or maybes. Like Faust, she would sell her soul to the devil in return for a bestseller and then buy it back with ten percent of the gross. “How often did you see your daughter?” I asked.

Puffing on her onyx holder, she said, “We met frequently at airports when our connecting flights crisscrossed. We dined in the VIP lounge. I always paid.” She gave it a beat and then burst into a raspy guffaw. Chauncey, giving the impression that he was in on the joke, joined in. Moments later everyone in the bar was sporting a grin. Yes, Sabrina Wright was infectious.

“Why did you suddenly decide to tell her the truth?”

“It wasn’t sudden. I had been thinking about it. And then one night—oh, you know—a couple of white chicks sitting around talking. I was trying to talk her into giving up Zachary Ward. He writes under the name Zack Ward.”

“Writes?”

“In a manner of speaking. He’s a reporter for a dreadful tabloid of the ‘I Was Impregnated by a Martian at the Church Rummage Sale’ variety. They met at a writers’ workshop where he was the guest lecturer, which gives you some idea of the workshop’s caliber.”

I wanted to remind her of the precarious position of those who reside in glass houses but refrained. I know it’s popular, especially in bombastic Palm Beach, to put down anything popular with the common folks, be it literature, music, or a hit film, and label it bourgeois. I refuse to go along with this line, not only because I am a member in good standing of the bourgeoisie, but because all art is valid, and appealing to the masses doesn’t make it less so.

If Gillian was enrolled in a writers’ workshop, that meant she aspired to emulate her famous mother. Was Sabrina unhappy over her daughter’s career choice? Testing the waters, I said, “I assume Gillian aspires to be an author.
As is the mother, so is her daughter
, the Old Testament tells us.”

Quick as a cobra on the offensive, she snapped, “In this case, Mr. McNally, it would be more a case of a bastard emulating a bitch.”

The lady had wit, however acerbic, and I was beginning to enjoy her company, but then I have always been an easy mark for well-turned ankles and calves. With anyone else, the black-tipped cigarette might have been construed as overplaying her hand, but Sabrina Wright overplayed every move, making the Mata Hari weed almost unnecessary.

Reluctantly I extinguished my English Oval in an ashtray and encouraged Sabrina to go on with her story. “You told Gillian you were her natural mother and she fled. Is that more or less what happened?”